


Stone and Snow

by echoinautumn (maybetwice)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Crack, Future Fic, Inanimate Object Porn, Inanimate Objects, Masturbation, Other, Post-Canon, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/pseuds/echoinautumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Jon, who grew into a man defending her and the realm from the wild mysteries on her northern side, who is deeply familiar with every crevice and scar at Castle Black and from Eastwatch to Shadow Tower, the Wall is beautiful and as vitally alive as he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone and Snow

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/1704.html?thread=180392#t180392) at asoiafkinkmeme on LJ, which asked only for Jon/The Wall. I took this a little more seriously than it should have been, but it is complete crack at its heart, at least in the tradition of men and the center of their command (see also James Kirk and all the Kirk/Enterprise that's out there).

The lift clatters anxiously around Jon as it lifts him to the top of the Wall. Some of the younger recruits to the Watch worry themselves about it, whether it will break down and go tumbling to the bottom one day when they’re on their way to their stations, but Jon has no such fears. To everyone else, the Wall is nothing more than a construct of stone and ice, if also a miraculous one. To Jon, who grew into a man defending her and the realm from the wild mysteries on her northern side, who is deeply familiar with every crevice and scar at Castle Black and from Eastwatch to Shadow Tower, the Wall is beautiful and as vitally alive as he is.

He pushes aside the iron grating and steps out onto the highest point of the Wall, overlooking the edge of the world, though he knows well that there is vibrant life and civilization beyond. With the fall of the Others, many wildlings elected to return to their homeland rather than struggle with the rule of lords and queens. Behind him, his quiet guard shuffles out into the biting wind, more quivering shadow than escort. 

“My lord,” the boy says without quite meeting his eyes, huddling under his cloak to hide from the cold that has not bothered Jon in a very, very long time. 

Jon nods to the lift. “You can go back down,” he offers, and smiles when the boy looks at him dubiously. “Send it back up when you’ve made it down. I desire some time alone.”

He barely manages a quick, “Yes, milord” before disappearing gratefully behind the iron grating and descending back to the fires of the castle. 

When Jon is alone again, though, he reaches out to touch the frozen stones of the uppermost reaches of the Wall, and his smile changes to something wistful. As a boy, he had wanted nothing more than to possess Winterfell, to know her as Lord Eddard had known her, as no one else could know her. Instead, he had been given to the Wall, to her castles and defense, and come to love her as he has not loved anything or anyone else. 

“They intend to make me a king,” he breathes to those cold rocks, and caresses them as he might touch the curve of a woman. He can have any castle in all the realm but the very one he now desires above them all, above even Winterfell; the one who loved him with bitter cold and loneliness. 

Around him, the wind lifts and whistles between the crevices of rock, as close an answer as Jon has ever gotten from his lady mistress. When he was younger, Jon had come to the top of the Wall to think, to look out upon his duty and reflect on what he had lost and what he had gained. The brothers of the Night’s Watch were wedded to their duty, betrothed to the Wall herself, and perhaps none of them had felt that so strongly as Jon had. More often than not, on those cold, clear nights when he came to her, and though the Wall could not answer his sentiments, Jon had indulged in something privately intimate with none but the Wall to see. Now that he is alone again, it’s hard not to recall the biting wind, the thin shelter from the elements, and the pulsing heat that kept the worst of the shivering at bay for a long time after. 

Jon closes his eyes and presses his back against the stone, his boots skidding out from beneath him while he lowers himself down to sit on the worn stone path across the top of the Wall. This scenario is all too familiar to him, despite the obvious differences between the boy he was when he first came to the Wall and the man he is now. His cloak is warmer, lined with black fur and of finer quality than any he’d had then, and his shoulders fill it out better than before. The first chilled touch of his fingers when he unlaces his breeches, however, is the same, and Jon staggers over his own breath, puffing clouds in front of his face when he hardens at the first touch of icy wind. 

He’d mastered the art of getting this part over quickly, lest anyone happen upon him amid his tryst with the only wife he’d been allowed. This time, however, Jon has all the time he could need, if he chose to take it. When he takes himself into his palm and gives the first stroke to cover himself from the cold, his head bumps hard against the stone and an unbidden moan parts his lips. The Wall only howls in response to the old routine, as she always did before, and Jon takes it slowly, considering those days when things weren’t really simple, but were certainly more so than they are for him now. 

The head of his cock is a bright, blood red, hot to the touch, bright and alive and pulsing with his quickening heart. Jon slams his eyelids closed and grits out a choked moan, though he knows even that is a little risky; there’s no telling when someone might come out to the Wall and find him here. Even that is the same, the risk of being found, though the consequences of catching him now are more likely to result in severe embarrassment for the other party than and reprimand against Jon for shirking duty. But, oh, even this is a duty, he has always thought, and finds it one he does not mind too much.

The tightening in the lowest pit of his belly is the first indication that Jon is so very much closer to his climax than he had thought. His head buzzes pleasantly, removed from the cold reality of the rock and ice that surrounds him, and Jon loses himself entirely to his own pleasure. It takes only a few more twists of his hand, an upward jerk of his hips, and he explodes past his palm and onto the frosted stone, thinking of the past and the Wall and how he will miss her when he will be forced to return to another, less palatable kind of duty.

It is several moments later that Jon recovers himself and laces his breeches shut again, and though he pushes himself to his feet and steadies himself against the Wall, his knees are weak from the intensity of it, as if he has just bedded a particularly energetic lover. Jon touches the Wall again and sighs. There is much more he could say, or reminisce on, but he thinks he would just as soon rather go back to Castle Black and prepare himself for his inevitable departure. The Wall herself only howls back at him, the wind nudging his cloak-wrapped figure back toward the lift. 

They might make a king of him if they ever manage it, or if he ever allows them to, but, Jon thinks as he steps back into the lift that his escort returned to him, he does not think they will ever take the Wall from him.


End file.
